Tropical

Florida can be gorgeous- sailboats docked in the sunset, pelicans, brazilian tunes, open air restaurants, little clothing necessary.

Spent the afternoon, after horrid chores and assignments, at the beach soaking up the last rays of the day.  The salty gulf calm and cool, clear - dolphins played off shore as birds swooped by - there must be a dozen different types of gulls here.

Big fat white families, skinny naked German kids, dark wrinkled Italians playing bocce on the sand, curvy teen girls and firm teen boys pose and point akwardly for each other on the fine white sand.

There is plenty to hate here too; unscrupulous alligator vendors that prey on the elderly, strip malls, mold, toothless dangerous backwoods types in their dusty pick up trucks and the leagues of under paid Mexicans polluting the air with the noise and fumes of the backpack blowers,  wild cats spotted and proud find themselves rotting in the sun after an ignomious death at the fender of a caddy.

Yet some strange confluence of energy occurs here.  Estuaries reconverge in wild color swamps with mangrove pillars and rosy color vaulted sunset skies.  Aged yuppies host second and third generation progeny at tennis and golf clubs, sail the gulf and give a taste of what life can be after corporate slavery or self employed drugery.   The sunsets over the gulf indulge themselves entirely in pinks too outrageous even for the English, purple too deep for prose, golden glows like Hollywood wished it could create.

It is tropical, and American and it has, after a decade of two week stints done twice a year, become strangely like home.